


Alibi

by yeaka



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cock Cages, Dominance, F/M, Implied femdom, M/M, Sexual Harassment, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Thompson presses Jarvis for information and mostly wishes he hadn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alibi

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know zero about Marvel or American history beyond this show; heads up. I guess this is an AU amalgamation of Jarvis’ interviews.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Agent Carter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He looks better in real life than he did in the photo of the H. Stark file, even though he was almost smiling there and he’s tense as barbed wire here. He stands rigidly, fidgets with the small of his fingers: little details that someone untrained wouldn’t notice, but Jack does. He always wanted to be a cop, and he’s the best in the office, and he sees right now that this man is going to crumble to dust in his fingers. 

Edwin Jarvis looks lost when he first enters the room, but Jack gives him a little push in the right direction—the chair across the table, the one facing the one-way glass. Jarvis takes his seat with perfect posture and his hands folded over the table, long fingers interlaced. Jack makes his way over to the other side, but he doesn’t bother to take his seat. He keeps his hands in his pockets, the paper work already spread out around the table. While his suspect waits with bated breath, he projects a casual, carefree confidence: he _knows_ this man is guilty, and there’s no use fighting the inevitable. 

“Where were you last night, Mr. Jarvis?” Jack asks, cool and calm. He keeps his eyes on the paperwork, even though he has it committed to memory. He’ll start off slow. He soaks in the sharp intake of breath that Jarvis has, almost expecting a confession right out the gate. 

But Jarvis merely says, “At home. With my wife.” His accent colours his words. It makes Jack think of Carter in a vaguely unpleasant way. 

When Jack looks up, he has a small smile on his lips. Not accusing. _Yet._ “No witnesses, then. How convenient.”

One perfectly etched eyebrow rises on Jarvis’ smooth forehead, and his pink lips tease, “My wife would disagree with that.” Jack simply snorts, not rising to the bait. A cheeky Brit—just what he needs.

He splays his fingers on the table over the report, drawing Jarvis’ eyes, and leans a little forward to say in a hushed, confidential tone, “It would be a shame if that wife of yours lost her man over your attitude, Mr. Jarvis.”

Jarvis’ frown deepens. He doesn’t try to say that he doesn’t have an attitude; he doesn’t say anything. One of the quiet ones. But he probably won’t make another crack like that, and Jack looms back up, all the power of the room behind him. 

If he had his way, he’d just beat the truth out of this traitor. It’d be more than the treason-ridden criminal deserves, but of course, that isn’t the way things work anymore. The war ruined everyone’s taste for a little good old-fashioned blood. His boss might still cut him some slack, but for all Jack knows, Carter’s beady eyes are on the other side, and she’d rat him out to the higher powers in a heartbeat. So Jack slips his hands back into his pocket and strolls slowly around the table, reciting as he goes, “And last week, when your employer’s car was ‘stolen.’ Where were you?”

Jarvis is now looking across the room and down, avoiding Jack’s eyes. He repeats, “At home.” 

“Hm. Then at the time that car was used in the midst of mass criminal destruction, you were...”

“At home.”

“ _Right._ ”

Jack’s come around the table, now, and he slides easily onto the surface, right next to the perpetrator he knows he has by the balls. Jarvis’ broad shoulders are stiff below Jack’s gaze. Once, Jack looks back at the mirror, nodding his head slightly—suspect is uncooperative; they’ll have to turn it up. If Jack needs to be stopped, now’s the time to stop it. But no interruptions come, and so Jack leans menacingly over Jarvis as he hisses, all quiet accusation, “You seem to be home a lot, Mr. Jarvis.” His shadow dwarves over the well-dress man in the chair, who spares only one harried look up in Jack’s direction. There’s a knowing smirk on Jack’s lips that he can’t quite keep down. “A lot of criminal, no, _treasonous_ behaviour seems to be going on under your watch, while you’re... what are you doing, again?”

Jarvis opens his mouth, but his eyes dart down before any sound comes out; Jack’s foot is lifting. He can’t beat Jarvis, not with others watching, but he can do _other_ things. Under the protective lip of the table, Jack puts his heel on Jarvis’ chair, right between Jarvis’ spread thighs. He rests the sole of his boot against Jarvis’ crotch, ready to _crush_ what he has to, and for a moment, all Jarvis can do is stare down, wet lips parted and eyes hazy with surprise, high cheekbones dusted a faint rose. 

He lifts his head again a minute later, face full of shame, but he looks away and doesn’t say anything about it. Men never do. They never want to test Jack’s resolve or to acknowledge how much at his mercy they are, and Jack gets the familiar rush at _owning_ another being, especially a posh, rich one like this, working for one of the most powerful men alive. And here he is, about to have his line ended by one righteous cop. Jack applies just a little bit of pressure to make Jarvis talk, expecting to sink his boot into the soft feel of flesh. 

Instead, his sole hits something hard. For one disgusting moment, Jack almost jerks away, thinking he’s found some sicko who gets off on the opposite: on being forced to submit to a better man. But as Jack’s foot shifts, he realizes that isn’t it at all. There’s something hard, smooth, rounded, unforgiving like metal, inside Jarvis’ pants. Right where his cock should be. 

Jarvis breathes, “Pleasing my wife.” He’s looking blankly elsewhere. It takes Jack a second to remember what that even means: Jarvis is always home, because he’s busy _pleasing his wife._

With his metal dick? Jack, confused and curious and appalled all at once, carefully rubs his shoe along the arc of it, and it’s definitely right over Jarvis’ cock. It’s curved with it, thick and only in spots; like he’s ribbed with metal rings. A line down the middle connects them. Jarvis sits there like a stone, hands flat against the table, while Jack fills out his mental picture: a cage. His cock is trapped in a _cage_. Jack’s mind floods with images, imaginings of how it might be, what a large, healthy cock would look like lined with metal and forced to stay down. At first he pictures thin, silver bands restricting Jarvis’ flesh, the skin pink and red as it strains to get out, maybe the head capped to keep in any leaks, or a little hole poked out to let him piss. But then, this is Stark’s butler. The bars are probably gold, probably fitted well enough not to dig in, and it must be something he wears all the time: it’s the middle of the afternoon, and he’s fully dressed. Jack is halfway through wondering if Jarvis’ balls are also trapped in little rings, maybe with a lock and key, before he wrenches himself out of that train of thought. He wants to jerk his foot away, but it doesn’t move. 

He’s lost his entire train of questioning. When he looks at Jarvis, he doesn’t see the stolen goods and the spotty record: he sees a handsome man thoroughly bound and knelt at his wife’s feet, thighs spread to accept a cage. Maybe it’s just for show, maybe she has a cruel streak, or maybe _Jarvis likes it rough_ , or maybe he’s a greedy little slut that needs a chastity belt to keep him from spreading his legs for every willing person he meets. That’s the worst possibility of all, because it gives Jack the horrible want to shove Jarvis into one of the bathroom stalls and nail his ass hard, like none of Jack’s girlfriends ever let him do. If Jarvis would let his cock be bound, surely he’d let his ass be plundered. Maybe he’d let Jack do _anything_ , and the show of bondage already gives Jack a whirlwind of sick ideas, the sort of things he finds in the back of dirty magazines and would never tell a soul. He’s already getting the intoxicating feeling of _dominance_ , and Jarvis sits so submissively in his place, like he’ll take whatever Jack dishes, because he was built to _serve_.

Jack doesn’t realize how hot his cheeks are until he hears a tap on the glass. It draws Jarvis’ head up and shakes Jack out of his reverie. He lost track of everything. He doesn’t know how long he’s spent with his foot against Jarvis’ tied cock, but he finally pulls it away. Jarvis lets out a small sigh of relief. He looks more put together than Jack feels. 

Even with two feet back on the ground, Jack feels dizzy. He can’t stop _thinking_ about it, and that traps him in a cycle of hating himself and hoping to God no one can see it in on his face. He makes one last attempt to pick up the forms on the table, but all the words blur together, and then Jarvis has the nerve to quietly ask, “Is that all?”

Jack blurts, “Yeah,” before he can stop himself. He probably would’ve said yes to anything. He just barely musters up the growl to threaten, “For now.”

Jarvis rises out of his chair. When he stands, his pants drape properly over his crotch, with no hint of the hidden sin inside. Jack stares longer than he should, searching for the telltale bulge, and has to step away as soon as Jarvis gets too close to him, headed for the door. 

With Jarvis’ hand on the knob, Jack grunts, “Don’t leave town.”

Jarvis dons a tiny smile and says, “Not to worry—my wife never lets me go far.”

Then he twists the handle and is out of Jack’s life, while Jack nearly melts on the spot, ready for the coldest shower he can find.


End file.
